Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,32

to pry any more secrets from loose-lipped Ian.

“I have chores for him,” she lied.

Colban breathed an invisible sigh of disappointment. He liked the lad. And he’d hoped to glean more information from him.

Following the lively entertainment of the morn, most of the day was deadly dull. After a breakfast of frumenty with raisins, he spent the next hours staring at the rafters, stirring the fire, and standing at the window in the hopes of getting a glimpse of the beautiful Valkyrie. She crossed the courtyard several times, but always in a tabard-flapping hurry.

Gellir’s replacement, Erik, standing guard at the courtyard wall, seemed more interested in mining his nose than conversing with a hostage.

Everyone who passed by was on a mission. Herding geese. Transporting goods. Chasing after stray children.

Rivenloch had a busy household. How a single lass managed it all, he didn’t know. Even Morgan, with his much smaller clan, relied upon Colban to be his eyes and ears. To serve as an advisor. A protector. A confidant. And a friend in dark times.

Someone like Colban could have helped Hallie. He’d spent his life at the right hand of a laird. He could spot trouble about to happen and was quick to quell it. He was a worthy diplomat who could broker peace before the rumblings of dissidence ever reached the laird’s ears. He could sense when the laird was stretched too thin, and he was skilled at taking up the slack.

If only they were allies instead of foes, Colban could have lent a hand to the overworked lass.

Instead, he was reduced to pacing the chamber in frustration and boredom.

Thankfully, Ian’s chores didn’t keep the lad busy for the entire day. Just after noon, he arrived, rolling a wheelbarrow full of stones across the sod and dumping them into a pile below Colban’s window.

“Hist, Ian, what’s that?” Colban teased in a loud whisper. “Are ye stackin’ stones to help me escape?” He grinned.

Ian took his question seriously. “Nay, we don’t have enough stones. ’Twould probably take three or four days anyway. And Hallie would notice straightaway.”

“I see. What do ye have planned then?”

“I’m going to teach you to read.”

“Read?” He lifted his brows. “Me? With stones?”

“Hallie won’t let me come to your chamber anymore, so ’tis the best I can do. You should be able to see well enough from there.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Colban’s mouth. Ian might well be the most determined lad he’d ever met.

No one had ever thought to teach Colban to read. The skills required of a laird’s right hand man were a strong arm, a loyal heart, and a keen nose for the scent of danger. Reading was a luxury. At least in the Highlands.

Nonetheless, he was bored. He might as well humor the lad.

So he watched as Ian meticulously arranged some of the rocks into a large curve.

“This is a C,” Ian said. “You can make it with your hand, like so.” He held up his left hand, mimicking the shape by curving his fingers and thumb. “You do it.”

Colban obliged him. “Like the wanin’ sliver o’ the moon.”

“Aye! Now watch,” Ian said, arranging more rocks beside the curve, into a circle. “This is an O.” With a finger, he traced the shape his mouth made as he said the letter.

Colban grinned. “O,” he repeated.

“And next…” Ian placed two rows of rocks in angled lines. “L. ’Tis like a leg with a wee foot.”

“L.”

“C, O, L,” Ian told him, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “COL.”

A shiver tightened the back of Colban’s neck. The same kind of shiver he got when he sensed an impending threat. But this was a frisson of excitement.

“Ye’re writin’ my name,” he said in wonder. He’d never seen it before. “Do the rest,” he urged.

He suddenly realized the value of knowing how to write his name. With such knowledge came power. Men wrote their name at the bottom of documents that imparted land and goods and rights. Betrothals could be forged. Cattle could be purchased. Hell, even Morgan’s claim to Creagor relied upon the king writing his name on a document.

The wee lad was bestowing upon him a gift of great magnitude, whether he knew it or not.

“B,” Ian said, adding in a loud whisper, “which looks like buttocks, aye?”

Colban was going to say breasts. “Aye.”

“And this…is an A.” Ian cocked his head. “I suppose it resembles a wee cottage.”

Colban nodded.

“Lastly…” Ian said, arranging the rocks in a zigzagging line. He scratched at his head. “’Tis